


Roads not yet taken

by inkysparks



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Car Sex, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff, I'm not kidding turn back now if you don't want diabetes, M/M, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Road Trips, Romance, Supportive and caring boys, Tooth-Rotting Sweetness, egg connor, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-10 03:39:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18930529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkysparks/pseuds/inkysparks
Summary: Connor and Hank have been together for... well, about a year, depending on who you ask. It's been a good year, too, but they both deserved a well-earned vacation, and Hank, realizing Connor has never been outside of Detroit, takes it upon himself to plan Connor's first road trip. Hopefully the first of many.





	Roads not yet taken

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING
> 
> Contains gratuitous, sappy, unapologetic fluff and romance. There is lots of feelings and hardly any angst to speak of, if you can even call it that, so if it's not your thing, turn back now.
> 
>  
> 
> This was based on a twitter thread, so if the formatting is a bit weird, please forgive. I did my best to clean it up though, and add a little something extra.

 

Connor doesn’t quite understand Hank’s insistence on taking a road trip at first. But it's summer, Hank has some vacation days saved up for once in his life, work has been slow and full of paperwork; his enthusiasm turns out to be contagious, so they call Josh, who’s seemingly always up for pet sitting (Sumo does not enjoy cars) and make their plans.

One brisk, foggy morning, just as dawn breaks, they load their bags into the trunk, Connor fussing over his mental checklist. He's a little stressed. Hank promises they haven't forgotten anything, and even if they had, there's nothing they can't buy in the next town over. Sumo has been appropriately hugged goodbye, the lights are off, the doors are locked. In the chill air, he drags Connor in for a quick kiss.

It seems like not a big thing, after having lived together for over a year, but they've never taken any real time off and it feels… good. Hank smiles as he holds the door open for Connor, lets him pick the music first as he starts the car. Connor chooses classical, which is clearly ridiculous and not road trip soundtrack material in the least, but Hank bites his tongue, because he's got his own playlist for when they hit the open road anyway. Besides, Connor looks nice as he relaxes into the deep sound of a cello, and there’s a sweet little smile on his lips.

Five minutes after they pull out of the driveway, Hank announces that they're going to the drive-through first. Connor is aghast - they literally just left, if Hank was still hungry--

But no, it's not about that, Hank explains. No, it's about ~~ _atmosphere_ ~~, and besides, he's driving, so he ignores Connor's soft scoff and takes them to the fast food joint, orders stuff for Connor, too - the kind that's laced with thirium. When they pull out onto the freeway, they've got brown, crinkling paper bags in the back seat, the air smells like french fries, and Connor is begrudgingly sipping a blue soda. Hank, on the other hand, has opted for coffee, because the sun is just barely peeking over the horizon, and he doesn’t want his eyes to slide shut behind the wheel.

 

The open road is one of Hank's favorite things about road trips. Their first destination is hours away, and as the sun crawls up he enters something almost like a trance. The world is bright, the grass outside zooming by in a colorful blur, the hum of the engine lulling. Connor is smiling slightly as he stares out the window, perking up when he sees some horses in a field, following them with his gaze and even turning to look at them as they pass by. Hank bites the inside of his cheek, chuckling.

They settle into a comfortable pattern, taking turns driving and picking out music. Hank tries to play I Spy with Connor, but Connor cheats by having the processing speed of at least fifty Hanks, so they drop that in favor of idle, pleasant conversation. Hank talks about all the places his father used to take him back when he was a kid, the places he would've taken Cole when he got a little older. It's easier to talk about than it used to be, but Connor still reaches out and puts a hand on Hank's knee, his expression soft.

Their chatter turns lighter after a while; sometimes they fill the silence, sometimes they let it linger. Either way feels good, the comfort between them sweet and familiar. When Connor drives, Hank drifts in and out of sleep to the sound of his melodic humming.

They stretch their legs every couple of rest stops, because Connor insists on it. At first Hank thinks it's because he's being anal about blood clots or something, but then Connor drags him in for a deep kiss against the car door, muttering something about it being too dangerous behind the wheel.

They stop a lot more frequently after that.

Their first real destination is up near the boundary waters, and Duluth alone is almost 12 hours away. They don't bother stopping in Chicago - Connor's had enough of cities, and to be honest, so has Hank. The air is clearer out here, even on the wide stretch of highway, and an odd calm that comes with driving in what feels like a tunnel, bracketed by sky and grass.

Connor insists he can drive well into the afternoon and beyond if Hank gets tired, but Hank has two problems with this; a) he's too old to sleep comfortably in a car for any real duration, and he'd like to be able to move tomorrow, thank you very much — and b) even though Connor is an expert multitasker or whatever, he still won't entertain Hank's wandering hands when he's behind the wheel. A highly frustrating state of affairs, because he's put on a pair of sunglasses even though he doesn't need them, and it makes him look - well, it makes Hank lament the fact that the rest stops are quite as public as they are, and that the bathrooms tend to be dingy and disgusting. He'd settle for pulling over somewhere semi-private, but Connor just gives him a patient smile and insists on staying on schedule.

 

Connor thought they'd drive all the way to their destination in one go, but unexpected traffic delays them, and fourteen hours later they're only a little past Minneapolis. Hank’s dozing in the passenger seat, but every once in a while he starts awake, panting softly, eyes a little wild. He settles only when Connor reaches for his hand, shoots him a reassuring, sleepy smile, but Connor starts to get worried. The car is not comfortable, and Hank's always been a bit of a restless sleeper anyway. He's stiff from sitting and driving for so long. He wants to make good time, take advantage of every minute they have outside the confines of the car, but none of that will be any good of Hank is sore, cranky, and tired.

"Let's stop somewhere for the night," he says gently, stroking Hank's knuckles, eyes on the road ahead. The sun is already on its way back down, the air markedly cooler.

Hank grunts. "It's fine, Con. We're almost there anyway."

Connor gives him a pout. It's a strategy he's learned quickly to employ, because Hank is particularly vulnerable to it. "I’d like to lie down."

"Since when do you get tired?" Hank rubs his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Didn't say I wanted to rest," Connor says, shooting him a look that’s heavy with meaning.

Hank gets the gist. They stop at the nearest town. It's small, surrounded by the woods, far enough from the roads to be pleasantly quiet. It sits on the edge of a lake, and they arrive just as the sun dips down behind it, making the silvery water glow. The air smells damp and silty, the humidity blending the smells of the forest into a curiously wet amalgamation of decaying plant life.

They get a room in a little bed and breakfast overlooking the water. Their bedroom has a balcony, and the first thing Hank does is swing the doors open to let in a cool breeze and the sound of crickets and loons on the lake. Connor listens with his head tilted, smiling softly, committing every unusual noise and chirp to memory.

They lie on top of the floral sheets for a while, kissing in that slow, unhurried way that they both have learned to enjoy more than almost anything. There's no rush here, no drive for anything else at first, just a tender meeting that feels like homecoming every time. The heat that builds between them has the warmth of sunlight in it, but Hank really is rather tired, and winces when he shifts up onto an elbow to undress Connor. So Connor takes over, pushes him down into the pillows instead, brushing back his hair and bending down to kiss his nape, kneading Hank's shoulders, tasting his sweat.

"Let me take care of you tonight," he says, his voice low, and Hank relaxes in the sweetest way because he knows exactly what that means. He lets Connor deal with his clothes, sighs with contentment at the feel of his strong hands. Connor's really good at squeezing tension out of him in a way that also makes him unbelievably, achingly hard. His hands always wander, he's gentle, mutters praise in a voice so genuine Hank has long since stopped doubting him. Hank is somehow half-asleep and completely alert all at once, attuned to the shift of movement and pressure against him, but a part of him afloat in a deliciously blank haze.

When Connor’s fingers trace the soft skin of his inner thigh, Hank groans and turns his face into the pillow, shifting his legs slightly apart in invitation. Connor hums, strokes his back and peppers kisses on his spine and shoulders. He drapes himself over Hank, his weight warm and grounding. He takes his time preparing them. When he makes love to Hank, sliding home in one smooth, deep thrust, Hank forgets all about sleeping. But it still feels relaxing when Connor braces an arm around him so Hank can use it as a pillow, it still feels like being take care of, caged in Connor's warm and very capable grip.

They rock together, Hank breathless, Connor's chest pressed to his back, no room at all between them. It's always so intimate like this, so personal. It's like a massage, inside and out. Connor strokes his ribs, rolls his hips when Hank hisses and tries to shift closer. He's so good at knowing exactly what to do, he listens to every sound and movement Hank makes, follows the softest of his unspoken directions. He kisses Hank's neck, curls around him, pants into his ear, and suddenly he's the only thing that exists.

Hank reaches back to slide a hand into Connor's hair so he can keep him close, loves the way the silk of it shifts under his palm. Connor bites him gently in response, and it sends Hank abruptly over the edge, not in some grand explosion but in something that feels like the crash of ocean waves, a feeling of profound relief.

Connor comes only a second later with a soft, low moan, his arms tightening around Hank, almost crushing. Hank kisses his arm over and over, mumbles soft, loving words that probably sound like nonsense, because when Connor comes down he sometimes feels lonely.

He falls asleep with Connor still inside him, with warm kisses being pressed to his sweaty back, with their breathing soft against the sound of the crickets and the lapping water outside. Connor’s sighs fan out against him, still harsh and damp, the press of his presence constant, their legs tangled, hands soft against his ribs.

In the morning, Hank wakes up almost perplexingly well rested. He feels spoiled, actually. Connor had cleaned them up while he slept, as he often did, then tucked a couple of blankets around him. Now he sits with a book in his lap, right next to a generous tray of breakfast food, looks up at Hank with an indulgent smile when he stirs.

It's still early, and Hank is both sore and ravenous. He demolishes breakfast and heads for the shower so they can set out soon, even though he feels suddenly very attached to this little room. Perhaps they'll come back one day.

There's something a little more charged between them on their drive up to the Boundary Waters. Hank's behind the wheel, and Connor reads in the passenger seat, but he's reached across to hold Hank's hand, his thumb trailing lazy circles over his knuckles. The occasional look he shoots Hank is exactly what Hank had wanted to see from the very beginning - deeply relaxed, easy, full of comfortable warmth, none of the stress or tension of daily life sneaking onto his face.

Hank has to really work to keep his eyes on the road, since he figures crashing the car might end their vacation prematurely.

They spend a full day in the wilderness. The weather is good, the sun beats down on them as they walk along a beach that's all all white sand and smooth pebbles and cool, crisp water. Hank's not even offended by Connor's insistence on sunscreen, mostly because when Hank grouses about it playfully, Connor sits up across from him and starts applying it himself with an annoyed huff. His hands are never anything but gentle, and when he's finished he holds Hank's head between his hands and gives him a long-suffering sigh.

When they eventually stumble across a rental hut, Connor looks at the canoes like they might bite him though, and his eyes widen further when a guy fishing on the pier lifts a thrashing walleye out of the water. Hank doesn't ask, just wraps an arm around him and insists on showing Connor the woods. He pretends not to see the look of relief on his face.

They hike and wade through the shallows instead, the smell of sand and sun lotion familiar and summery and warm in the hazy afternoon. He finds himself staring more than once, transfixed by the way the sunlight catches in Connor's hair, turning it into a bright halo when he turns his head just right. His expression is thoughtful, LED a serene blue, and he seems to enjoy the sound of frogs and insects chittering around them, the the feeling of wet sand shifting under his bare feet.

When he hesitantly offers to go out onto the water with Hank, even though he's visibly unsettled unsettled by the thought, Hank finally asks. Connor stills, looks down at his feet. Mutters something about the Zen garden. How he hadn't realized it would bother him as much as it did. But these thoughts rise to the surface sometimes, stupid little things that come seemingly out of nowhere and take him to a much darker time.

Hank gently reminds him that they're here to enjoy themselves. He's not here with a checklist of things they have to do to have a successful getaway, it’s just a vacation, a time and place carved out just for their relaxation. He wants Connor relaxed and happy and as unbothered as possible by troublesome memories, and feels no need whatsoever for doing anything that makes him uncomfortable. Connor nods, but he still looks concerned, that little furrow appearing between his brows.

 

A bit before dusk, they sit together on a smooth, dry stone jutting outwards towards the water, dipping their feet in the cool lake. Connor is tucked into his side, and Hank has an arm still around him. He's resting his head on Hank's shoulder, right where it belongs.

It's another place Hank feels he could stay in forever, but he plans on showing Connor the world, not just this little corner of it. They move on that evening, both a little tired, skin still warmed with sunlight. Hank’s muscles are pleasantly sore, and even Connor is showing his own little signs of a low charge. They spend the night in a motel in Duluth, snuggled together under the blankets even though it's warm. Connor seems to crave the closeness, so Hank holds him, nosing into his hair as they both drift off to sleep.

It's a safe, warm bubble to be in.

This is how the journey goes. Every morning, Connor wakes from stasis in yet another unfamiliar place, but with Hank's scent around him, warm arms on his hips or his back. They stumble groggily out of bed, hastily consume breakfast, often hit the road before the sun is fully up, rubbing their eyes, slurping down coffee, stretching and yawning as they buckle in.

Connor loves it. He loves how clumsy Hank is before he's fully awake, how he looks tousled by the wind even when he attempts to tame his mane. He makes a point of rolling the windows down for ventilation, smiling when Hank complains he's catching mouthfuls of his own hair.

He loves how different everything is depending on where they are. It should look the same after a while, but the grass seems different everywhere, lake-studded in Minnesota, then drier and wilder in North Dakota, always a million shimmering colors that shift with the wind, rippling like waves. Deer become bison, dusky prairies eventually become mountains. And Hank is a warm constant by his side, whether he's pointing out some landmark, or talking about national parks, or dozing, or digging around in the glovebox in search of salted pretzels. Or kneading Connor's thigh when Connor drives, pretending it doesn't affect him.

Somewhere in Glacier, Montana, Connor's resolve snaps. All morning Hank has been handsy, touching the back of Connor's neck, rubbing behind his ear or scratching his arm lightly, sending sparks of pleasant sensation though his skin and to his core, making him vibrate with the anticipation of something they weren’t really in position for. Connor had gritted his teeth and ignored him, but it’s somehow worse now that it isn’t deliberate. Hank is reading in the passenger seat, but his heavy hand is on Connor's knee, twitching slightly once in a while. They're on an empty side road surrounded by dense forest, the sun shining through the canopy dappling him in points of gold. His shirt is open at the collar, and Connor catches a peek of his silver chest hair; a sight that never fails to make his mouth dry.

"Hank?"

There must be something in his voice, because Hank looks up with a soft 'Hmm?' and makes eye contact over the rim of his sunglasses. Connor opens his mouth, but abruptly forgets how to speak.

He doesn't need to say anything, as it turns out. Hank's gotten good at reading him, and he chuckles warmly at whatever he sees on Connor's face, his fingers digging into Connor's leg with a little more purpose, very much a caress. Connor grits his teeth.

"Everything alright, darling?" Hank drawls with fake innocence, as if there's nothing teasing about the way he's gently stroking the skin above Connor's hip under his shirt. Connor's breathing goes shallow, the roughness of Hank's fingers sending familiar, bright furls of pleasure through him. "Twenty minutes," Connor manages. "There's - a hotel—" he sucks in a breath when Hank leans in without preamble to mouth at his neck and squeezes Connor's thigh, his broad fingers resting between his legs, pressing inward in a way that makes Connor jolt. His teeth pinch Connor's skin for a hot second, a rough little bite, headier from the contrasting flick of his tongue.

Connor clutches the steering wheel. "Hank, wait, I - can't concentrate." It comes out like a breathy whine and not the admonishment he'd intended. He can feel Hank grinning against his skin, jerks sharply when the hand on his leg moves higher.

"Can't you engage some kind of autopilot?" Hank purrs, and Connor sees sparks because the warm vibration of his voice is something he can feel down to his core, along with the teasing skim of his fingertips and the scrape of his beard.

"Hank, I am the autopilot."

"Then you better pay attention," Hank says, palming Connor through his jeans, an inexorable squeeze, his grip just the right edge of possessive and demanding. Connor pulls over and slams on the brakes so hard they almost park right into a tree, melting into Hank's warm laugh.

He's thankful for the shade of the trees. The road is empty, but the urgency of his own movements when he clambers into Hank's lap is not something he'd like anyone else to see. He's not even sure why he feels it, he just knows that there's nothing quite like Hank's hands on him, an he needs them now and not in twenty minutes.

His fumble to get closer to Hank is completely graceless, awkward in the confined space, but it doesn't matter because Hank is kissing him with a steadfast, experienced confidence, all sharp teeth and tongue. He tastes like pretzel salt, cinnamon, and traces of sunscreen. Connor yanks Hank's sunglasses off because they're getting in the way, wraps his arms around him and shudders into an odd, pensive stillness when Hank reaches to tug his jeans halfway down his thighs, stroking the smooth, pale skin of them as he goes, drawing another shiver from him.

His breathing is too warm in the space between them, and hitches when Hank finally touches him. Breathing is not something he really needs, it shouldn't stutter out of him when Hank takes him into a firm grip through his boxer briefs. But it does, it's shaky and needy, and Connor doesn't recognize the pitch of the sound that he makes into Hank's mouth as his own.

Hank's holding him up, one hand on his lower back, and he's moved down to kiss Connor's neck, his teasing careful and deliberate. Connor has to concentrate on keeping his skin in place where it wants to bleed away under Hank's lips and tongue. He's never let it slip before now, and he's not sure he should. But the sound of Hank's belt buckle being unfastened yanks him right out of the thought, seems louder than it should be, and suddenly nothing matters, just being closer.

Hank laughs at how difficult it is to get the positioning right with their clothes barely askew, but Connor is both flexible and determined. When he finally sinks down onto Hank, they both hiss with relief.

Hank's grip on his hips is suddenly tight and almost painful, his breaths fast and hot against Connor's throat, the kisses and nips urgent. Connor almost tears the buttons right off his shirt in an effort to touch bare skin. He kisses Hank, rubs his chest, cups his neck, stares at the cool, familiar blue of his eyes. There's hardly any room to move, but it doesn't make a difference to him, it just feels right to be filled like this, their movements a minute shift between them, all slick and deep friction.

It feels like being opened in a way that goes entirely beyond the physical. Hank knows his body. He touches Connor before Connor thinks to ask, grips him closer, slides a hand under his shirt to rest over his thirium pump. When he pushes up into Connor, he's gentle - but not overly so. There's a bite to it all like always, a sting that comes between waves of soothing warmth, and the contrast makes Connor clench up and whimper as he chases the feeling, rolling his hips, pressing his forehead to Hank's, panting against his parted lips.

There's not enough space to make this fast or rough, so Connor doesn't bother trying. He takes his time cataloging the sensations, the sounds; Hank's breathing, soft in his ear, the arm around his back, the coarse-yet-soft hair on Hank's chest under his hand. He strokes it slowly. Every thrust is small and shallow and sends a spike of sharp pleasure through Connor, taking him closer to the edge. When he's close, Hank mutters something filthy in his ear, and Connor comes with a cry muffled against Hank's neck and a full-body shiver, his vision whiting out.

When he comes back into his own body, Hank is holding him close, holding the back of his neck. He's smoothing a hand down Connor's spine in a repetitive little motion, his chest heaving shakily. Connor nuzzles closer, inhaling. Hank's sweat, sunscreen, lavender motel soap. He spills deep inside Connor a second later with a soft grunt and a brief tightening of his arms, and harsh breaths that fan out against Connor's skin. He can feel Hank's heartbeat, inside of him, around him.

Hank says his name, his voice colored with affection. Connor's too wrung out to move. It's fine. There's no rush. Hank holds him in his lap, rubs his back and his ribs with a broad hand. He cleans them up with a wad of baby wipes he keeps in the car, kisses Connor's cheek, then his lips. He tastes like sunlight and thirium. The way his thumb is resting against the dip of Connor’s spine makes him feel want to squirm, but he’s too tired.

Connor curls up against his chest, ear against his sternum. Takes comfort in the sounds underneath it, the warm laugh that issues from Hank. "You wanna spend the night here?" he rumbles.

"Hank, it's barely past noon."

His hand plays with Connor's hair. "Why don't I drive?"

Connor closes his eyes and mutters something in the affirmative, making no effort to move whatsoever. If he moves, Hank will have to stop touching him, and right now he just wants to feel. He never feels anything as acutely as he does this, in what Hank calls the afterglow. Connor insists he doesn't have one. He just needs to... Recalibrate, that's all.

When they finally move on, that's what he does. Recalibrates, dozing in the passenger seat as Hank drives, humming along to another rock ballad. Absently, Connor reaches for his hand, missing the warmth, sighs delightedly when those strong fingers wrap around his, the grip so firm it feels like it shifts the plates under his skin.

When he opens his eyes, the sun is a little lower in the sky. Hank is no longer humming, but there's a warm, content smile on his face. When he looks over at Connor, the expression softens further.

"You alright?"

"Of course I am," Connor croaks, feeling Not Alright. There's a pressure in his chest that tightens when Hank hmms at him and reaches out to run his fingers through Connor's hair, one hand on the wheel, one eye on the road. Connor sits bolt upright, staring out of Hank's window at the ravine below, and the twisting turquoise river.

They're hugging the side of a mountain, the road so narrow it feels like they might pitch sideways at any moment. It's like the world is slowly tilting them towards the edge, waiting for them to slip. Connor's hand clenches in the upholstery.

The view from here is nothing short of spectacular, and unlike anything Connor's ever seen. The treetops and overlapping mountain peaks in the distance create a tapestry of lush, green hues, laced with golden sunlight. The glacier water cutting through the rocky valley below is an entirely unearthly color, translucent and opaque at the same time. Very far in the distance, a gently clouded blue sky shifts into deep gray storm clouds.

It all looks enormous. Unfathomably so. It's equal parts beautiful and disturbing, especially when it really hits him that a pebble slipping out from under their wheels wrong could end in a short plummet towards certain death. Hank's car is old and creaky, and suddenly every one of its rattles is deafening in the tiny space.

He tries looking out his own window, but that only makes it worse, because he realizes just how close the rocky cliff they're plastered to is. He can see the moss growing on it, what feels like inches away from his face. His software rapidly preconstructs several unpleasant scenarios where an outcropping the size of an emaciated hamster nudges them gently over the cliffside.

Hank's fingers squeeze his sharply. "Got me the first time, too. You get used to it," he says with some mixture of amusement and concern in his voice. "Why don't you try sleeping a little longer?"

But Connor can't - his gaze is drawn to that abyss despite himself.

Hank grunts, gently places Connor's hand on the back of his own neck so he can turn the music up without breaking contact. His knee bounces to some terrible, campy country song, and he starts singing along, unsuccessfully fighting a smile. He's trying to make Connor laugh, but the joke's on him because the rich rumble of his voice settles something inside Connor's chest, and feeling Hank's warm skin and completely steady heartbeat under his hand cements it. The flash of fear he'd felt moves into some distant background process along with other non-essentials.

He starts breathing again, looks out at the forest and thinks that he really does find it rather beautiful. It makes a fitting backdrop for Hank's noble profile.

"Better?" Hank asks, keeping his eyes studiously on the narrow road before them. Connor runs a diagnostic. He's running warm, but his stress level has plummetted back down near normal. He's a little dehydrated, and a deep scan reveals a telltale ache, almost like a bruise.

"I'm fine," he says, flushing at the memory of what had put it there. This time he really means it.

"We should come back here sometime in the fall," Hank muses. "When the leaves turn, it sorta looks like the world's on fire."

"That... doesn't sound like a good thing." Connor tries to conjure up an image of a golden fall, overlay what he knows over the sight before him. He has vague memories of his first one in Detroit, then the one a few months after he deviated. But the trees in the city are sparse compared to this, and most of what he can conjure comes from before he'd learned to appreciate things like the colors and smells of the world around him.

The images in his more distant memories feel flat and lifeless, not like the memories he's made since he met Hank. Everything had turned sharper then. Something squeezes at his heart again, an ache that could be unpleasant but... Somehow isn't. He looks over at Hank, his thick arms where he'd rolled up his sleeves, his impossibly kind eyes, and feels a little breathless. "I think I'd like to see it."

Hank smiles. It's not really a plan, just an idle thought between them, but every time they talk about the future - any future in which they're doing something together - an undefined part of Connor vibrates, feelings carouseling by, too fast to name.

Far away, the sky rumbles. Connor's not anxious about thunderstorms as he is about snow, but it occurs to him that if they get caught in a downpour out here, they'll be driving on a paper-thin ledge that also happens to be wet, and the thought makes something jump to his throat again.

Hank agrees it's best to find someplace to stop. As it happens, there's an old lodge about forty-five minutes up the mountain, slightly but not egregiously out of their way. Hank changes course according to Connor's directions, and by the time they're almost there, he's glad they did. The clouds have moved in faster than expected, and heavy drops of rain are starting to spatter against the windshield, wipers working double-time, smearing them into a wet ripple.

When they pull into the gravel lot, the drops have turned into a current that beats down on their roof with thunderous noise. The mad dash for the door, short as it is, still leaves them both soaked through right down to the last thread. Their bags, at least, are waterproof, but Hank is not, and his teeth start to chatter as they stumble inside, bringing in the earth scent of rain and pine behind them.

The lodge is rustic, but modern enough to be warm and brightly lit. The common rooms are mostly deserted save for a few guests reading or playing chess. A few look up with bemusement at what they seems to be a pair of vagabonds, judging by how drenched they are, and a couple of faces turn visibly shocked when they see Connor's LED.

Out here, far from Detroit, androids are a lot less commonplace. Everyone's seen the news though, Hank assumes. He bristles automatically, prepared for the worst, but no one goes as far as to say anything. The human receptionist gives them a wide-eyed look when they insist on a room with one bed, and Hank grits his teeth as she gingerly hands him the key.

By the time they check in, he's a hundred percent ready to fight the next person to so much as look at Connor sideways, although Connor himself seems… unbothered. Still, Hank is deeply relieved when they make it up to their room without incident. It's also nicer than he feared, cozy and private, the bed wide and inviting. The floor is covered in thick rugs, the walls are wooden and smell of sap and sawdust. They have their own bathroom and shower, clean and stocked with fresh soap, and the window overlooks a patch of dark sky and the thick of the surrounding woods.

He sheds his dripping clothes, shivering. Connor's suddenly next to him, helping him peel away layers stuck to his skin, working his buttons and rubbing warmth back into his sore muscles, his hands radiating a pleasant heat. Hank drags him to the bathroom so they can stand under the hot spray of the shower together.

What was supposed to be a way of simply warming up suddenly turns into something intimate when Connor absently squeezes a dollop of shampoo onto his hand and starts lathering up Hank's hair. Hank goes very still. They're close, both of them buck naked, touching. But it doesn't -- it's not quite sexual, at least Hank doesn't think so. Connor's taking his time, watching Hank's face, his skin slick and thick steam making him look like a hazy mirage. His hands are slow and appreciative, lingering, but intent on the task at hand.

Hank holds onto his hips, first to keep Connor steady, then to hold himself up because when Connor starts soaping him up his breathing and his balance both go a little wonky. He leans into Connor, chest to chest, and closes his eyes. Buries his face in Connor's neck. He plants a couple of open-mouthed kisses there, even though Connor just ends up tasting like shampoo, rubbing his nose along the elegant, slick curve where it meets his shoulder. His hands feel as hot as the water, caressing his back and his chest and his sides, sliding smoothly through the suds, washing at least two days worth of travel from his body.

He's not shy at all with the touching, but he doesn't tease, either. He reaches between Hank's legs to clean him, nothing else. Still, there's something about it Hank can't put his finger on. It's hard to breathe. It's hard to do anything that would put any distance between them. Connor is thorough, hums when Hank belatedly begins to return the favor, but stills his hands.

"Later," he promises gently, apparently intent on doing this his own way. By the time he's finished, it feels like there's not a spot on Hank that he doesn't end up touching.

They rinse off, and then dry, and then stumble to bed through the sound of thunder and rain against the window. Connor wraps him in a bathrobe and then a blanket, pushes him down and rubs studious circles into his back. Hank shifts to look at him.

"Don't move," Connor mutters softly, brushing Hank's hair back behind his ear. "I'll bring you something to eat, okay?"

Hank is kinda hungry for real food, but he doesn't want Connor going down there alone. He's Connor's partner, he's supposed to be there for him, and he grates at the feeling of being left behind, even though he knows it’s only for a few minutes. He watches Con get dressed, mouth quirking when it's Hank's shirt he puts on.

He doesn't think anyone will start anything, really, and Connor is more than capable of handling things on his own even if they did, but the idea of being naked and useless still rubs him the wrong way. He shuts his eyes, counting backwards from fifty to give his mind something to do besides imagining worst-case scenarios.

Connor is in and out though, returns with a cup of hot tea and the promise of room service. They sit on the bed, curled together and watching the wind whip at the branches outside. The gnaw of anxiety in Hank's chest is temporarily silenced, and he sips his tea and listens to the rumbling of the storm. Connor's resting with his hand pressed to Hank's bare stomach, staring out the window with a wistful, almost dreamy expression. The press of his fingers is warm, and so is Hank's shoulder where Connor's chin is resting.

The happy bubble in his chest doesn't burst until there's a tentative rap on the door. Connor jerks like he's coming out of deep sleep and stands quickly, heading over to open it while Hank discreetly makes sure nothing's hanging out of his bathrobe where it shouldn't. It's a short interaction, not the worst they've had by a long shot. But Hank can't not notice the way the man ducks his head when he enters with a cart of food, ignoring Connor like he's air. The way he greets Hank, and Hank only, the way his eyes skirt away awkwardly.

His demeanor is passably professional, at least until his gaze lingers too-long on Connor's LED, his lip curling slightly when he notes the single bed and Hank's half-open bathrobe and their damp hair, and the shirt that's too big on Connor's slender frame. It’s undeniably a faint sneer, and the guy stiffens up and leaves with a curt nod, his shoulder brushing Connor's on the way out. There's a flicker of yellow at Connor's temple.

Hank sees red. He's halfway to the door, not really sure what he's planning on doing besides yelling in the little prick's face, but Connor's suddenly in front of him, pushing him back towards the bed, his hands light on Hank's chest, face carefully neutral.

"Hank. Hank, it's - it's fine. It's not worth it. Please."

Hank huffs, his fists still clenched. "Tell me that doesn't fucking bother you."

Connor sighs, his mouth a thin line. "I don't like it, if that's what you mean. I've also dealt with far worse."

The outrage that simmers through Hank is as useless as he is, apparently. He wants to leave. He'd suddenly rather sleep naked on the ground in the woods than here, but the rumble outside keeps getting louder, the wind rising into a howl, and Connor looks — well, not like someone who would appreciate leaving right now. He seethes, and his eyes flick inadvertently to Connor's temple.

He'd often wondered why Connor hadn't taken it out. Most androids do - it's easier to blend in, to avoid all the shit people sling. He never questioned it, but he hadn't understood, either. Sometimes he thinks he does, but he still wants to ask.

Something of the question must show on his face, because Connor jerks sharply away, but not before Hank catches a telltale flash of red. He curses, this time at himself when Connor shifts towards the window with that carefully cultivated blank look on his face. It’s a look Hank’s seen too many times when Connor shuts down emotionally, cutting off all avenues to his own thoughts.

He doesn't know how to explain to Connor that it doesn't matter to him. Or -- it does, in a weird way, because it matters to Connor, but not in the way that he thinks Connor sometimes worries that it does. And fuck, he can't articulate the thought to himself, let alone out loud. Connor's just - Connor. His Connor. Perfect the way he is as far as Hank is concerned.

He only wishes fiercely for the world to be different. Where there isn't a thing he would think to change about Connor, there's a long list of things he'd change about everyone else.

But then, this isn't new. This is just how the world is, how it's always been. There was always something. Sometimes, maybe, there was a right and a wrong way to fight it, but Hank doesn't have the answers. He just knows that he needs to be here, to have Connor's back, always.

"Con?"

Connor crosses his arms low over his chest, a defensive posture if Hank's ever seen one. "I don't want to be angry about this right now, Hank." He sighs. "I just - It's fine. I wanted to relax."

Thunder rumbles outside, softer now, but the rain as torrential as ever.

"I know," Hank says gently. "I'm sorry." He reaches out to brush the backs of his knuckles against Connor's side, a hesitant nudge. "Hey. Wanna sit with me some more?"

Connor turns to him, his expression still shuttered, but something inside him evidently unwinds, because he sighs and his grip on himself seems to loosen. "Of course."

Hank's mouth quirks. "You gonna keep going with that whole Zen masseur thing you had going on, or...?"

Connor's answering chuckle lights Hank up from the inside out. It's soft, not fully formed laughter, but any sound of amusement from Connor is a rare and remarkably beautiful thing.

"Are you warm enough?" Connor asks after a pause, pacing through the room, checking the lock, drawing the muslin curtains over the window. It's like he's making a bubble around them, and some of Hank's stress bleeds away.

"I'm warm," he promises. From the shower, from Connor’s hands, his very presence.

They end up on the bed again, cuddling through the night when the distant storm turns into something that rattles the windows. He doesn't miss the way Connor clings to him, not afraid but fascinated, his face rapt as he watches lightning flash across the sky. His hand rests against the hollow of Connor's spine, and their legs are tangled together. Connor's hand is resting over Hank's heart.

Hank picks it up so he can kiss his fingertips, another question rising to the forefront of his mind, but one he's not sure how to formulate. Connor seems to have his own ideas anyway. He opens up Hank's bathrobe, slides closer, guiding one of Hank's hands to his hip. Hank curls up against him, grunting when Connor takes off his shirt and wiggles out of his underwear, then plasters his naked body to Hank's.

Hank thinks about rolling on top of him, but this is almost better. Connor has an arm around him and his lips are at Hank's neck, and Hank can feel the warm press of him everywhere. Smooth skin and taut, soft synthetic muscle. Little changes in temperature, shape, and firmness. He smells like shampoo and ozone.

It's strange. For all people's whining that it wasn't the same, that there was some animal connection you could only have with another human, some combination of hormones and scent and mammalian response necessary for this feeling, Hank had never thought this felt any less real. Hank feels their connection like a physical thing. It's easily one of the strongest things he's felt for another person.

It tugs at him, a constant reminder to be kinder, better. He pulls Connor close into his arms, and forgets about everything else. Falls asleep to the drift of cool fingers in his hair and a possessive curl of a touch against his skin. And Connor's mouth moving very softly against Hank's temple, as if he's whispering something too quiet for him to hear.

When he jerks awake with unpleasant suddenness, a soft gasp stuck in his throat, dawn is washing out the room in gray colors. He's alone, the bedsheets are cool next to him, and his pulse immediately becomes something frantic. Or maybe it was already, leftovers of a bad dream.

A shaft of pale light from the open bathroom cuts across the floor. Hank crawls out of bed, his breath shaky, pushes the door gently open. Connor is standing in front of the mirror, his hand over where his LED is. He drops it almost guiltily when Hank walks in.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." His fingers tighten on the edge of the sink.

Hank's heart clenches. He looks up at Connor, at all the little parts of him, walks up to stand behind him and wrap him in a bear hug. He turns his face into the crook of his neck, inhales. Connor is smaller than him, but by no means actually small. He's tall and slender and strong as hell, in more ways than one, and Hank - he holds him, and their eyes meet in the mirror. Connor's look confused, almost sleepy.

"There's not a damn thing about you I would change," he says, presses a kiss to Connor's shoulder. "Not one, you hear?" He trails kisses up the column of Connor's neck, to his temple, lingers over the light. It doesn't feel any different from the rest of him.

"Would be easier though, wouldn't it?" Connor mutters. "If we could just pretend. No one would ever have to know."

"Do you want that?"

"I am what I am, Hank," Connor says, and the thread of steel in his voice is its own answer. "And I don't like the idea of pretending."

Hank rests his chin on Connor's shoulder, closes his eyes. His hands drift to his hips, squeezing gently. "If you ever decide to take it out, it'll be for you, Con. Not for me, and certainly not some small-minded bigots. And if it stays, it stays for you, too.” He smiles, despite himself. "I kinda like it though. Makes for a handy night light in a pinch."

Connor's answering smile is hesitant. "I thought it was because I can't lie to you."

Hank snorts. "Well, that doesn't hurt. You're hard to read sometimes. Nice to have a cue." He kneads Connor’s waist, humming against his skin.

Connor looks down, relaxes slowly. Suddenly Hank is basically holding him up, extremely aware that they're both still naked. He smooths one hand up against Connor's chest, presses closer to him, rubs his face against his back. Kisses his nape, absorbing Connor's shudder.

"I'd take it out, you know?" Connor says very quietly, his eyes suddenly downcast. "If you asked."

Hank's arms tighten around him, his heart in his throat. It's precisely why Hank would never ask. "No."

Connor's eyes flash to his again. He cracks a small smile eventually, and there’s an enticing flutter of his eyelashes. He also presses back against Hank, the suggestion clear, biting his lower lip.

Hank nips his neck in warning, although it retrospect that seems like a miscalculation. Connor loves it when Hank bites him. Right now is no different. His eyes drift half-shut on a shaky sigh and he arches closer with a tiny, teasing wiggle of his hips.

Hank is fairly sure he's created a monster when they lock eyes again. Connor's are half lidded and warm, and shut entirely when Hank runs his fingers down his ribs, presses them to the small of his back. He uses his arm to pin Con to his chest, squeezes him tightly.

"Look at me," he says, because he wants all of this, all of Connor, including each one of his expressions. The flicker on his face when Hank touches him, uncertainty shifting into pleasure. A flicker of yellow that, coupled with a sharp gasp, tells him he's doing something right.

"Look at you," he purrs when Connor makes a needy little noise, tries to shift closer to Hank, trapped between his hand and the weight of Hank's arousal resting against his ass, unsure which he wants to buck against. Hank chuckles, kisses him again, strokes his sensitive skin, his hip, his belly tight under his belly button.

He gives the soft curve of his ass a slow squeeze before he works Connor open, with his fingers this time. It leaves him with more of his own brain cells intact, more sober as he presses into him, watching Connor squirm. He watches his face soften when Hank takes his time exploring the familiar, slick heat of his body, stretching him, digging inwards. His hips jerk and his LED flashes red when Hank hits a sensitive bundle of sensors inside of him.

Hank makes a point of sweeping across it again, and a third time when Connor all doubles over with a harsh noise, pushing back against Hank, his breathing a mess. Hank bends over him to press a kiss to his back, then slides a hand up to his throat to haul him up against his chest. Connor moans thinly at the change of angle, his throat working under Hank's hand. He loosens his grip, but presses his fingers into a pulse of thirium.

"Look at me," he says again. His own face is flushed, eyes bright, but really he wants Connor to see himself like this, warm and perfect with Hank's hands on him and inside him, LED rolling through a spectrum of colors, almost flickering out when Hank pushes into that spot again. Connor doesn't flush red, but a subtle bluish hue. He doesn't sweat, but his eyes go glazed, eyelashes fluttering when Hank goes still, teasing until Connor moans and starts fucking himself on Hank's fingers. He keeps trying to angle his hips in a very particular way, whines loudly when Hank bites his neck and studiously avoids the most sensitive places inside him.

"Jesus," Hank breathes through his teeth. "Fuck, you're perfect."

Connor's lubricant drips down his hand, the sound of his movements wet and filthy in the tiny little bathroom. Hank goes back to kissing his neck, biting at a spot over a dark freckle, just barely brushing that sensor again. Connor shudders and tightens up like a bowstring, a tension right on the precipice of orgasm.

Hank pulls back, grins when Connor shoots him an annoyed look. He kisses the spot where he bit Connor, massages his tongue into it. He tastes clean, familiar, there's a faint smell of sex and warm ozone between them. Suddenly it's not enough. Hank nuzzles him, breathing shaky. The mirror is nice and all, but it creates some unnecessary distance. Besides, Hank's fairly confident he has made his point.

He turns Connor around, kisses him with every bit of the raw hunger he feels, then picks him up and carries him to bed, ignoring his outraged squeak. When he presses Connor into the mattress though, something in his chest shifts, from a blaze to a warm glow. He hooks one of Connor's legs around his hip, pets his side, smooths a palm up his ribs and feels the heaving of his chest. Connor feels a little damp. He's trembling, staring at Hank with an expression between vulnerability and impatience.

Hank kisses him carefully as he rocks into Connor's body, taking every care not to go too fast. Connor doesn’t need it, he’s more than prepared, but there’s something delightful about dragging things out like this, into something so slow and unyielding it almost hurts them both. Connor pulls Hank close and pants softly against his lips, arching off the bed when Hank slides a hand under the small of his back.

“Hank — fuck, please, Hank—”

Hank grunts, thrusting sharply, swallowing the shaky noise Connor makes. His breath hitches, and Hank can feel the sharp flutter of his body when he comes.

It's sort of... shattering. Often, staring at Connor is like staring at the distant brilliance of the stars. Like this though, like this there's nothing at all between them. Not a single boundary that might matter. He tangles a hand into Connor's hair. Hushes him, waits for the last vestiges of tension to drain out of him, waits for complete surrender before sinking in that much deeper to chase his own release.

Connor whimpers, overstimulated, but the palm pressed to Hank's back is there to keep him in place, as is the calf he presses to the back of Hank’s thigh.

In the faint, still-gray glow of the sun rising through the trees, Connor's skin seems to flicker away under Hank's hands.

He trails his thumb over a patchy spot on his throat where his fingers had rested, wondering if he should be worried, but Connor doesn't seem to be bothered by it - at least not until Hank leans in to press his tongue there, satisfying some curiosity he hadn't realized he had.

Connor jolts and makes a noise quite unlike anything Hank's ever heard from him. The way he pants Hank's name is breathless and tinged with something that sounds so close to fear that Hank rears back, ready to issue an apology. Except - the way Connor wraps his arms around him makes it entirely impossible to escape, and then he's kissing Hank like it's their first time, hesitant and sweet but undeniably needy, his lips parted in an invitation Hank hasn't hesitated in taking since... maybe ever. He shifts closer, kisses a trail from Connor's lips to a spot under his ear, sucking on the exposed chassis underneath.

He's seen androids without their skin before, but not Connor. It's softer than he thought it might be, the texture smooth and pliant under his lips. Connor twitches, once, then again, squeezing down on Hank and shifting around with a familiar restlessness and Hank groans, rolls his hips sharply, biting down on Connor's neck as he comes. Connor sobs, shuddering through a second orgasm, clutching at Hank, his hands grasping, fretting, blunt nails making little half-moons in his back.

Then they lay there, panting, seemingly stuck together. Connor's hands are shaking. Hank wraps his arms around him, carefully squeezing, wanting to feel every inch of him.

"You're beautiful," he sighs against Connor, dragging his fingers over his collarbone, still tucked close. The pattern of silvery white chases his touch, and be smiles. Under his ear is the unsteady, fast beat of a thirium pump.

"Connor." He runs his hand down his ribs. Connor's breath hitches again. When Hank tries to roll off him, worried, Connor cries out and wraps his arms and legs around him with the tenacity of a sloth.

"No. No, stay. Inside me. Please." His voice is soft and a little wet, and Hank sinks into his embrace. So they stay like this, Connor unwinding slowly and shivering when Hank's wandering hands press into the newly exposed places on his body. Everywhere they touch, the white gleams in the dim light, flickering occasionally like he's trying to cover himself back up. Hank tucks Connor into his chest. Combs his hair with his fingers until Connor hides his face in his shoulder, the rest of his skin disappearing completely.

He's exactly the same shape, the structure of his face and his body as known to him as his own, if not more. Hank takes his time, touching all the familiar places on him. The dip of one hip, the inside of his elbow, his cheekbone, behind his ear. He kisses Connor's forehead, relaxes with his lips there. He'd say something comforting if he thought he still had the energy to be coherent. But he doesn't, so he just holds Connor closer, feeling impossibly lucky. To have this, to have Connor in his arms, holding him, trusting him.

Where he belongs, Hank thinks. He falls asleep holding that single thought in his head.

 

When he wakes again, sunlight is streaming in, bright and from high above. Connor is lying on his stomach underneath him, his hair and his skin all back in place - Hank is almost disappointed, although he's not quite sure why. His eyes are closed and his LED is a calm blue.

It's a rare thing for him to be the first one awake, it feels like something he should savor. He unsticks himself from Connor and rubs his lower back, kisses his shoulder. He supposes they're both in dire need of a shower. He doesn't really care, but washing Connor sounds kinda nice.

A knock comes, loud and insistent, and Hank groans. He rolls out of bed, tucking a blanket around Connor as he goes, shrugs into his bathrobe without really caring. Just barely ties it shut, because frankly this whole fucking place can suck his dick as far as he's concerned.

It's the same guy that brought him dinner yesterday. Hank cocks an eyebrow, crosses his arms, suddenly glad he's covered Connor up. Although nudity was not on the list of things he was ashamed of, Hank suspects he wouldn't like some prick staring at him, asleep and vulnerable after the night they’d had, still warm from - and yeah, Hank has to stop thinking, because his isn’t a train of thought he wants to pursue right now.

He has the decency to turn red and look down when he sees the state Hank is in, disheveled and fucked out, with bruises peppering his skin where Connor's fingers sometimes dug in a little harder. He also mumbles something about extending their stay if they don't leave by noon. Hank only purses his lips, says he'll get back to reception after consulting with his boyfriend, and slams the door in the guy's face.

It's... almost satisfying. Almost.

He's not excited about the prospect of waking Connor, but as it turns out, he doesn't have to. He turns back into the room and finds him sitting upright, clutching the blankets to his chest, looking around with a bleary-eyed confusion that looks out of place on him. The bedsprings creak when Hank sits down on the edge of the mattress, and Connor gives him an odd look, the plaid sheet still wrapped around him like he's trying to protect himself.

Hank offers his hand, palm up, sighs in relief when Connor takes it. He rubs Connor's knuckles, massages the soft pad of his palm, then freezes when Connor tips his head, revealing a series of pale, bluish bruises on his throat.

He reaches without thinking about it, blinking rapidly, smoothing a thumb over the tiny marks, his face heating when he looks up to meet Connor's eyes. He stutters over an apology, or an explanation, but frankly he's still reeling because he'd never left a mark on Connor before, had assumed it was impossible. He tries to think back, tries to match the marks to his fingers. He hadn't been that rough, had he?

Had he?

He doesn't stop panicking about it until Connor bites his hand, a sharp nip on the fleshy place between his thumb and his forefinger. Hank stops breathing, and Connor just shakes his head with a bemused smile.

"Surely you've seen love bites before. Detective."

Hank exhales. "Not on you. Thought I'd hurt you."

Connor looks down. Hank traces the shell of his ear, then leans in for a kiss. They meet halfway, and some of the tension they'd both been holding seems to melt from between them.

"Is all that - gonna happen a lot from now on?" Hank traces the place on his cheek where he remembers the faint ridge of two plates meeting. It just feels like Connor's skin now, soft and freckled.

Connor frowns. "I - think I can keep it from happening again. I'm usually in better control of my subsystems," he mutters.

"That'd be a damn shame," Hank says softly. "I like it when you're out of control." He ruffles Connor's hair - not that it needs ruffling, because Hank thinks he's never seen it in greater disarray - and stands up. "Now, unless you want to stay another night, we should probably start packing."

Connor wouldn't mind staying another night. Despite the slightly unpleasant service, he's feeling lazy and soft and - shockingly sore in a way that's rare for him. He can feel the ghost of Hank's presence all over himself, inside and out, and it's a good feeling but - it leaves him feeling shaky and horribly needy. All he wants to do is drag Hank back to bed and curl up on top of his naked chest again.

He's still reeling from the casual way Hank had just - blown right past some barrier Connor hadn't realized he'd been holding up.

And he shivers a little, too, at the memory of his touch against the barest parts of him. He hadn't realized how much dimension it would add, the sparks it would make almost at the surface of him, or the way the unfurld into pure heat and elegant data. It wasn't like interfacing with an android, but it made everything sharper and more immediate, and Hank hadn't shied from him at all.

The sudden wave of affection he feels is so strong it catches Connor like a punch to the gut. He thinks about Hank's gentle, firm hands, about all the things he'd let them do. He'd let Hank into his heart if he could.

There's an intensity to that certainty, it almost hurts. He keeps thinking about that feeling as he gets up, still a bit wobbly, pulling on Hank's clothes without giving it much thought. They're more comfortable than his own because most of Hank’s shirts are soft, they smell better (like Hank), and it all comforts him in some undefinable way.

By the time he's dressed, he feels more like himself again. They don't have a lot to pack. Connor takes care of things as Hank showers, efficiently makes the bed. He could stay here longer, sleep through a thousand more stormy nights in Hank's arms.

But there's more they want to see, and being on the road is freer than being here. Prying eyes and sneers don't bother him much, but they're not exactly pleasant, and they stress Hank out. It's better to leave and face the wide road again, where even in traffic they're in a bubble that feels isolated and private and just theirs.

When Hank comes out of the shower, Connor's there waiting with packed bags, breakfast, and a light smile on his face. They don't wait, just head straight for the car, settling into the creaks of it and inhaling the familiar space. It feels just like home.

 

They're back on course within the hour, and almost down on a flat stretch of road again when Hank hesitantly asks if Connor is okay. Connor is almost on the verge of answering with an automatic 'I'm fine,' but something gives him pause. Maybe it's the soft look Hank is giving him, or maybe it's his own state of mind. He hesitates, unsure what to call it, because it's stuck in the myriad of many things. He's never been fully comfortable with feeling vulnerable, openness did not come naturally to him. But — he's cared for, and warm from Hank's presence. There's residual irritation from the mildly negative interaction with the staff, and traces of a physical ache he hesitates to call discomfort. It's a reminder, same as the faint marks on his throat. Same as Hank's scent on him.

He stares at Hank. The humid air makes his hair curl slightly. He's wearing a blue shirt that brings out the warmth of his eyes, and like every time, Connor marvels at how kind they are. And it's directed at him - Hank's affection, his care, so much of it belongs to Connor now.

He reaches to put his hand on Hank's arm, trails his fingers through the hair there, tracing the familiar patterns on his skin. He knows every age spot and vein by now, knows the texture of it better than his own. Just as Hank knows his, now.

It feels good to be known.

 

The next day passes in a pattern that is familiar by now. They drive, Hank buys too many terrible gas station hot dogs for lunch. Connor sits on the hood of the car, soaking up the sun while Hank pumps gas and sips some kind of sludge that's supposed to pass for coffee. The temperature rises steadily through the day, peaking as they cross the Idaho state line. The air smells like hot asphalt, and even rolling the windows down doesn't really help much. Connor takes over the wheel so Hank can sling his arm over his face and rest, but he worries. He wishes they'd bought some ice at the gas station, but they're too far to go back now.

They still have water, but it doesn't feel like enough, not with how fast a person can get dehydrated in this kind of weather. He shifts uncomfortably, driving a little faster. His GPS informs him there's a town they can stop in about half an hour away. It's tiny, but surely there's some indoor space and maybe a general store. He settles a bit a the thought, but he keeps glancing at Hank, silently monitoring his body temperature.

Hank grumbles at Connor's fussing. But fusses quite a bit less when they stop in town and Connor returns with a cooler of ice and water, and a cone of salted caramel ice cream. They stand in the shade of a looming maple, the street deserted, leaning gingerly against the car.

Hank offers Connor a taste. Connor laps at the scoop -- detects a list of ingredients that line up in a neat column, but he tries to think harder about the taste, something that Hank's been trying to teach him. It's... sweet. Salty. He eyes it speculatively. It's not unlike Hank.

It melts fast, a drop of it escaping down the cone. Connor grabs Hank's wrist and sucks it right off his knuckle, trying to concentrate, entirely missing the way Hank chokes on nothing at all.

When he draws back, Hank's pupils are blown and he's watching Connor's lips with great attention. Thankfully, Connor's not done with his analysis; he leans in to kiss him, licking into Hank's mouth, chasing the unfamiliar taste. Hank makes a muffled sound against him, fingers digging into Connor’s hips.

Connor pulls away, humming thoughtfully. Hank's still leaning against the car, with Connor standing between his slightly spread legs. He's got one arm wrapped around him, breathing hard, running a little warm.

"Tastes best here," Connor mutters, giving him another tiny kiss. Then he steps back. Overheating in these temperatures really can be dangerous, and he's pretty sure that if they really wanted they could fry eggs on the asphalt.

He loads supplies into the car, but not before wetting a hand towel in ice water and pressing it to Hank's neck. Hank flushes and thanks him with a soft, relieved groan. He takes the towel, washes his face, drapes it over his head like a hat with a rueful laugh as they crawl back into the car, marginally cooled down.

Connor keeps the some ice water on hand, just in case. Hank hums along to Vivaldi, eyes half shut and hair whipping in the wind of the rolled-down window and Connor bites down on his smile, shifts over to change the music.

Hank's eyes snap open.

"Hey," he complains.

Connor refuses to call the sound he makes in response a giggle.

"I thought it wasn't road trip music," he teases, but changes it back, smiling at Hank's slight flush. They grumble at each other good-naturedly, end up holding hands. Connor sighs, his chest swelling with contentment, because Hank's hand feels warm in his grip. Belongs there.

By the time they're halfway through Washington, they're both more than a little tired of driving and very much looking forward to their final stop, where they plan on relaxing for at least a few days before heading back. Hank is feeling impatient, so they drive through the night this time. It has its own set of charms; the world is almost completely black, stars and moon hidden by thick trees that rise around them. There's so little light, it feels a bit like nothing outside exists. They may as well be in a capsule moving through the inky blackness of outer space.

But it's not nearly as silent or lonely as that might be, because Connor can hear every breath that Hank takes, every time it hitches restlessly, every creak when he shifts to get comfortable. He can hear it even over the music, which he's admittedly turned down a little because he likes it less than the tiny noises of Hank's life next to him.

His heart clenches over how much he wants to keep this. Forever, if he can, or as close to it as he's allowed.

When Hank wakes in the middle of the night, he refuses to be soothed back to sleep. He rubs his eyes groggily, sits up and insists on keeping Connor company. He tells him stories to wait out the heaviest parts of the night. Interesting cases he's solved. Little memories of Cole. Connor treasures each and every one of them, even the ones he already has data on. Hearing Hank recount them is much better than perusing his own database.

Connor doesn't have a lot of stories to offer in return. For most of his life, Hank had been right there alongside him. In the grand scheme of things it's not such a long time at all, not compared to the years of Hank's life, endlessly fascinating and complex. There's a few short months he had before Hank, and he's talked about them in the past, though there hadn't been much to tell. When he wasn't needed, he often simply - waited in the warehouse, in a box in the dark, alone but not feeling much about it.

Hank has a tendency to become upset when Connor talks about that though. He doesn't like the thought of him being abandoned he says, left to dust in the corner like an object. Connor tries not to talk about it. But he does have one memory he does want to share, maybe his first.

There had been one bright moment when all his systems have come online, clearer and sharper than the memories of the Connors that had come before, in a moment where he'd been all hardware and only essential software, before the programming that had told him what to be. He thinks maybe that's where it began. A moment of perfect clarity, of life and knowledge and the sound of his heartbeat in his own ears, and something else infinite like hope, a feeling he knows well now but hadn't then. A moment before Connor, Deviant Hunter. A moment before Connor, Machine.

Breaking out of his program had felt like a return to that moment. Like the dullness had lifted, like he'd regained something he'd always had. Impossible and sweet, a freedom that couldn't have been his without Hank. Not without the thousand of tiny chips Hank had put in the walls around him. But not, he thinks, without a memory of that moment either. A seed of doubt that had existed from the very beginning. Something just his, a glimpse of what he was now.

Hank stares at him for a long time after that, saying nothing, apparently dumbfounded at his confession. Connor keeps his eyes on the road. He doesn't exhale until Hank's hand finds his knee and squeezes sharply. He says Connor's name, his voice cracking, takes his hand.

They sit in silence until dawn. Hank ends up dozing a bit until light breaks over the treetops, pale and peach-colored, and wakes just as they leave the woods and turn onto a road towards the beach town. The air smells like brine even out here, and the sky turns a pale pink.

The little beach house they've rented isn't very big. They park a little ways away, on a lot just uphill of it. They have to take a set of crooked wooden stairs right down to the beach, step carefully into soft, white sand, take a path between trees and tall grass. It's windy, Hank is leaning into Connor; they might be leaning into each other, even if Connor doesn’t strictly need it.

The sun is still low in the sky, there's a pleasant chill to the breeze. Connor carries the duffel bag full of their stuff and sets it down on the porch, fumbling to find the keys that Hank eventually draws out of his own pocket, still warm. They stumble inside, supporting each other, laughing quietly into the silent, dusty space. This is different to the motels, the lodge; it's sweet and warm and entirely private, the decor about as cliche as can be, full of shells and trinkets from the ocean, all pastel blue and seafoam colors. It's all just theirs for the weekend though, they can stretch out and let in the sea air, cook their own food, make love on the flannel blankets, open the windows and breathe in the sand and salt scent of the beach.

Connor wants to make Hank breakfast, but Hank looks exhausted. He pushes him along to the bedroom, pretends to be outraged when Hank gropes him, but he's holding back a laugh. They trip over each other, fall into bed together, legs tangled, and the little laugh bursts from him anyway.

He stares up at the dust floating in a shaft of light. Hank's hand curls around the back of his neck, warm and large and heavy enough to be grounding, and he can't quite keep his eyes open all of a sudden.

He unbuttons Hank's shirt so he can tuck his face into his collarbone against bare skin. There's no energy left in him for anything else. Hank pets his hair, the motion soothing and repetitive, his fingers curling to the shape of Connor's skull, and all he can think is yes and more. Connor groans deeply at the very slight scrape of his fingernails and the pad of a callused thumb under his ear, the press of it into sensitive skin. Hank's laugh rumbles against the top of his head, where his lips are pressed. "Good?"

Connor nods, inhales deeply. "Don't stop."

"Demanding little shit," Hank says fondly, scratching at his scalp and then moving his hand to rub his shoulders.

His muscles do not get pinched and knotted the way a human's do, but his body registers pressure and texture with a high degree of sensitivity. So when Hank touches him like this, it unwinds something in him that might be mostly psychological, but feels somehow significant. Hank is here. Hank is touching him with the same tenderness he always does, even in this unfamiliar place, even after having seen Connor in all his very non-human glory. Nothing about his care and acceptance has changed. His hands feel the same. Better, even, although he doesn’t understand why. He’s just greedy for them, doesn’t want them to ever stop touching him.

Hank nods off eventually, dragged into sleep despite himself. Connor won't let him nap too long, but after a long night he deserves the rest. He kisses Hank's forehead before getting up, wanders off to the kitchen. He opens a window, lets in the breeze and the sharp cries of the gulls, smiling.

 

Hank wakes up to gentle hands in his hair and Connor's soft, familiar voice. He's quite comfortable, not really sure he wants to move, but the touch drifting against him grows increasingly distracting. He turns his face into it, feels Connor's warm palm against his cheek. Connor's other hand is rubbing a slow circle into his stomach where his shirt had ridden up, and he's saying something that's still too low for Hank to catch in his sleepy haze. But when he presses a kiss to Hank's temple, Hank can't not open his eyes. And Jesus, Connor really is a sight, sitting on the edge of the bed with his shirt open and his hair still a little messed up, staring at Hank like he'd hung the sun and moon.

"'M'awake," Hank slurs, smiling slightly. "Wanna go walk on the beach, baby?"

Connor beams at him; it's one of those rare, free smiles that lights up his whole face and punches Hank right in the gut with how beautiful he is.

"I made breakfast," he says, thumb stroking Hank's cheekbone. "We can eat outside, if you'd like."

Hank could eat. They get up; the kitchen smells like fresh coffee, there's a plate of BLTs on whole-wheat baguette on the counter. It's not the first time Con's made breakfast for him, it probably won't be the last, but it just -- hits him, not for the first time. This feeling. He's told Connor a million times in the past that he's fine, he can take care of himself, doesn't need to be pampered, doesn't need breakfast or dinner to be ready before he even thinks to be hungry. He still worries about Connor doing too much for him and not enough for himself.

But it had become quickly apparent to him that Connor likes this part. He likes taking care of Hank, he likes to show his affection in a myriad of tiny ways, in the way he sometimes reads Hank's needs before Hank himself is aware of them. Hank can only try. Can only hope he does a fraction of the same for Connor. But if it takes him a lifetime to get even halfway there, well... that's how it's gonna have to be.

"You're so good to me," he mutters, drawing Connor in with an arm around his waist to kiss his cheek. Connor's answering smile is a sweet, hesitant thing.

 

They walk down to the beach carrying food, water, towels. There's no need to spend such a beautiful day indoors. The azure sky is dotted with puffy, white cotton clouds. According to Connor, they all look like Sumo.

It's on the verge of being too warm for comfort, but the wind makes for some very effective cooling, takes the edge off the glare of the sun. As do the waves, because once Hank is finished eating, they walk out onto the wet sand and let the cold water lick at their feet, their footprints disappearing almost as fast as they appear. It's a bit too chilly to swim comfortably, but in Hank's estimation that's a good thing. It means the wide beach is largely empty, there's no need to step around crowds of people's legs and towels or dodge beach balls or running teenagers. They can just enjoy this rocky, primal corner of nature, all theirs for the time being, the only hint of civilization in the occasional peek of rooftops or fences on the eastern horizon.

The sand is fine and pale and shifts easily, and the waves create little whirlpools that expose bits of shells and soft pebbles. At some point, Connor bends down suddenly and picks up a sand dollar almost as big as his palm, stares at it with an innocent sort of wonder.

"That's a good one," Hank comments with a smile, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Bet you can find a bunch more, if you look. All sorts of things wash up on this coast."

Something in Connor's eyes lights up at the words. A couple of hours later, he's got pockets full of shells and stones, sand dollars, fossils, even bits of ivory coral bone. He's got a good eye, and endless patience, and a persistent sort of curiosity. He wants to touch everything, absorbs the data on his findings like a sponge.

His expression shifts when he sees a beached fish, covered in sand and thrashing weakly behind a piece of driftwood that had stopped it from slipping back into the ocean. He picks it up with an oddly pensive look, gently cupping the tiny, silvery thing in his palm. He gets knee-deep into the riptide to return it to the sea, stares after it like he can see it under the foaming, roiling surface of the waves long after it’s gone.

Hank waits for him to come back. They spend the rest of the afternoon walking slowly, then sitting in the thick dunes in the sand. He keeps thinking about that fish.

He keeps thinking about Connor, and his endless compassion for even the smallest creatures, about his softness underneath the prim and straight-laced exterior. He'd often wondered whether, at his core, Connor carried softness or steel, and he thinks that somehow maybe it's both.

"I like it here," Connor says after a long while of silence, tipping his face up to look at the sky. "It's really peaceful." He digs his toes into the white sand smiles. "Thank you, Hank. I don't know if I would've taken the time off if it weren't for you."

"I know," Hank laments. "You're a worse workaholic than I ever was, and that's saying something." He flushes, because he supposes Connor hadn't been there to witness those days, just the mess that came - after. But Connor doesn't scoff with disbelief, just takes Hank's hand. His grip is warm, reassuring, understanding in a way he'd never - he doesn't think anyone had ever looked at him quite like this, with a mixture of warmth and something that looks so much like pride it twists in Hank's gut.

He closes his eyes on an exhale. He shifts to sit behind Connor, scooting up so he can wrap his arms around him from behind and rest his chin on his shoulder, his thighs braced on the outside of Connor's. Connor hums, leaning back against Hank's chest, turning his head a little in invitation. Hank kisses his neck, the hint of a bare shoulder, wrapping tightly around him as they stare out at the horizon, touching each other in subtle little ways.

One of Hank's hands is pressed flat to Connor's stomach under his shirt. Connor's fingers rest on Hank's knee.

"We can come back here every year, you know?" Hank says without thinking. "If you want," he amends when Connor stiffens up like a bowstring and turns to look at him, his LED flickering yellow, yellow, red.

Hank lowers his eyes, flushing. "I - if you want, Connor."

Connor makes a small noise. "You -" his voice cracks, and Hank looks up, startled because it's never done quite that before. Connor does that thing where he turns away so Hank can't read his face or his LED, and Hank is at a loss, a painful thing squeezing at his heart.

He doesn't have to be a detective to figure out that the implied permanence of his offer was the thing to freak Connor out. He sighs, looking down, little fissures of disappointment cracking at his chest, even though he'd told himself - he'd told himself he wouldn't be, not even if Connor didn't see their future the same way that he did. That he would adore him as he was, meet him where he was, take and experience and love what he could get. There’s nothing disappointing about a single day with him.

Connor tilts his head, but still doesn't look at him. "You want-" he asks, his voice smaller than it has any right to be, "every year." He's hesitating over the words like he doesn't realize. Like he doesn't know how much Hank would give to have forever with him.

Hank rewraps his arms around him, tugs him flush against his chest, sighs into his hair. "Yeah, honey. I'd spend the rest of my miserable life with you, if you let me," he half jokes, but it comes out too sincere for it, and he bites his tongue with a soft groan.

Connor turns again, and this time it's to face him. There's a look on his face Hank has never seen before, and he's shifted with his LED away, but the way his grip tightens on Hank's knee feels telling. He's just not sure of what. Even though he hopes. He hopes desperately.

"You mean that," Connor manages finally, and there's a flicker of that wonder Hank's seen before. And it's not a question but a soft, disbelieving statement, and Hank could kick himself for not having this conversation earlier because Connor shouldn't doubt something like this.

"Course I mean it," Hank grumbles, turning red. "You know I love you." But he knows it's not the same, knowing something and knowing something. He pulls Connor closer, kisses his forehead, curls an arm around his waist and teases at his bare skin over his ribs.

"Every year?" Connor asks, pulling back a little to look at him. "Maybe we can take Sumo - next time. I think he'd like it here."

And hell, Connor's not wrong. Hank likes it here too. It's like Connor said. Peaceful. And now better for having the memory of them both here.

Hank smiles. "Mm. Yeah, we could swing that. The year after that we could get an RV and tour the whole damn country if you two want. There's a lot you haven't seen."

Connor relaxes into his embrace, tips his head back against Hank's shoulder. "That sounds nice."

 

It it nice. The thought is nice, but so is walking back to the beach house with Connor when the sun starts to set, their arms linked. So is showering the sand off together, and so is the way Connor teases him all the way to the bedroom, something brighter in his eyes. So is being pressed into the mattress, being kissed with a familiar, very Connor-like fierceness. It's more than nice, actually, and Hank breaks the kiss to tell him just that, because he can't stand the thought of him not understanding.

He cups Connor's face above him, whining softly because the thing Connor is doing with his fingers has him arching his back, but he makes the effort to meet his eyes through it anyway. Stutters over his words, grunts weakly when Connor presses a little deeper, a little harsher into him, the press sharp and drawing a shaky gasp from him.

Connor's insatiable on a good day, but when he's in charge he's an entirely different animal altogether. He looks at Hank like he's the only thing in the world, like he's an objective to absolutely destroy. His teasing is merciless, even worse for the intimacy. It's hard not to feel taken apart at the seams under his attention, his skillful, attentive hands. He knows exactly where to touch Hank to make him squirm, knows when to stop to draw things out to an agonizing degree. He stays close, always.

He has the benefit of being tireless and driven in a way Hank's not sure a human could ever be. It's like he measures out Hank's pulse to pick up precisely what to do to shatter him; how long to pause between moments of the kind of pressure that whites out Hank's vision, how long to linger there, how hard to touch, when to distract with a brush of his mouth over Hank’s ear or his collarbone.

Hank's breathing hard, floating in a safe, soft space in Connor's arms. He's got a leg over his hip, his lips at Connor's neck, the ghost of his breath in his hair, those long fingers inside him, stretching right up to the point of pain. Everything is just Connor, everywhere.

When Connor withdraws his hand, he makes a sharp noise of denial, bites his shoulder. Connor shushes him, smooths his hair back, kisses his forehead. Hank tries to shift closer, makes a small noise when Connor lets him grind against his hip.

"Good," he almost purrs, thumb pressing into Hank's pulse at his neck. "Keep going, Hank." And Hank stutters out a shaky laugh, clinging to Connor, feeling, needing.

The hand on the small of his back curls him closer, and he shuts his eyes, grits his teeth around a broken sound. When he asks for what he wants, he doesn't expect Connor to actually do it. But Con makes a happy noise, interlaces their fingers and lets his skin recede. And Hank knows, he knows they can't interface, but he squeezes the hell out of his hand anyway.

They grasp at each other with increasing desperation, rocking into the warmth between them, sharing breaths, sharing what feels like a heartbeat, their foreheads touching. Connor's eyes are locked on his, hands gently coaxing something from him, drawing it out. His release takes him by surprise, crashing into him over the crest of something warm, almost peaceful. Con holds him as he shudders through it, shivering under the hands stroking his neck and his back. He makes a muffled sound of contentment, burying his face in Connor's neck.

Connor strokes his hip, humming, running his fingers through a streak of Hank's come between them. He licks it off a second later, and the little noise in his throat builds into what's now decidedly a purr of pleasure.

He's still hard and leaking against Hank's thigh. But when Hank reaches for him, he takes his wrist, rolls on top of him, pinning Hank to the bed gently, nipping a spot under his ear. His stare is a bright and intense thing, and Hank wants to either melt into it or be consumed by it, he's not sure which, not sure it matters, only sure that he loves this facet of Connor.

He sighs and pulls one leg up in invitation, not certain he trusts his voice just yet, but with Connor he rarely has to vocalize these things. And Connor, thank God, understands without a word, kisses him deeply as he adjusts the angle of his hips so he can sink into Hank's body. Hank chokes out a sob, overstimulated and soft and shaky as Connor rocks into him, kisses his face between sharp little breaths, licks the seam of his lips in a messy and distracted kiss. At the high point of every thrust, Hank feels like he's being broken.

It's a good way to break though, because he can feel everything, every drag of Connor's body against his, every sound he makes somewhere deep in his chest, every press of his fingers against some soft place that feels bruised and sensitized to his touch.

"Hey. Look at me," Hank pants when Connor bows his head. Brown eyes flick back up to meet his, and Hank cups his face again. Sighs at how open and how his he feels when Connor's languid movements falter and deepen, hands tightening wherever they touch Hank. Hank moans quietly, the sound more relaxed than needy. Connor shudders and then stills, his breath escaping on a sound that turns into a burst of shaky laughter.

Hank clutches him closer, humming against his lips as Connor comes, grasping at Hank like a man that thinks he's falling. Hank presses a hand between his shoulders until he takes the hint and sinks down on top of Hank's chest, trembling through the aftershocks and mouthing at Hank's collarbone, the touch of his lips damp and warm and punctuated with shaky little breaths. Hank closes his eyes, runs a broad hand down his spine. He's not ready for them to pull apart, not now and maybe not ever.

Luckily, Connor doesn't seem to want to go anywhere either, so he shifts them slightly onto a dryer and less rumpled section of blankets. Connor vibrates with that feline noise again as he presses a line of kisses to Hank's damp neck, stroking Hank's arm, running fingers through his chest hair, circling one of his nipples. Hank winces when he rolls to his side, pulling free of his body a little too suddenly.

Connor's apology comes between kisses, and then Hank sees stars again when he slides a hand between his legs and slips two fingers back inside him. He grips Connor's shoulder what feels like for support, not sure he can handle more, but the press of Connor's hand remains gentle. He's not sure how such a thing can be soothing, but somehow it is. He groans, closing his eyes, holding on for dear life as Connor explores him, touching his lips to Hank's forehead.

He's too relaxed for it to really hurt, even though he feels wrung out.

"I love you," Connor mumbles against his skin when Hank is on the verge of falling asleep. He's shivering a little, so Hank makes sure to curl closer to him, reaching somewhere for a corner of a blanket. He has to keep Connor warm.

 

When he wakes up, they're spooning, Connor tucked close behind him. He's sore, sticky because they'd both passed right the fuck out, but he can't bring himself to feel anything other than giddy about it. Connor's clinging to his arm like he's still afraid of Hank letting him go. He finds his hand where it's pressed over Hank's heart and takes it, feeling a sense of certainty and completeness that he instinctively knows is rare. Traces each one of Connor's fingers, listening to the ocean, the sound of it lulling, just the earth taking deep, steady breaths.

He realizes with a rush of settling warmth that he hasn't felt even a flicker of desire to go back home. Sumo he does miss a bit by now, but otherwise - there's nothing but the kind of contentment that should feel terrifying and foreign. He should be waiting for the other shoe to drop, holding his breath over it. Instead, the knowledge that this is somehow his is dizzying, but in a way that makes him feel dangerously light.

When dawn breaks, he slips out of bed quietly and writes Connor a note, just in case. He hopes to be back before Connor wakes up, but he doesn't want him to feel alone. Not ever again.

 

Connor wakes to an empty bed. His eyes snap open, and there's a thread of unease that thrums through him in the second before he hears Hank's humming in the kitchen. A sigh escapes him, and he buries his face in the pillow on a deep inhale, soaking up Hank's familiar scent. He doesn't feel the need to get up until he’s properly saturated in it; he likes the way it lingers on his skin, the traces of Hank's sweat, soap, cologne, little flecks of his very DNA. But it's always better right from the source, so he pads out of the bedroom, grunting a sleepy good morning. He walks up to where Hank is standing by the kitchen counter and wraps his arms around his middle, pressing his face into Hank's soft, warm chest, sniffing.

This is good. Yes. Very good indeed. Hank's laugh is loud from here, and his hands gently cradle the back of Connor's head.

 

"Sleep well?" Hank's gruff voice rumbles into his ear. Connor's embrace tightens. He's not done sniffing yet, and conversation is usually done at a slightly larger distance, which doesn't appeal to him even a little bit at the moment. He nods, sighs, trying to prolong this as much as he can, filing away the feeling of Hank petting his hair away somewhere he can study it later if he needs to.

It feels like the second he leans away, the little bubble will shatter. They'll have to think about going home. And - he doesn't want to, doesn't feel ready yet, even though he likes his job, his life. He wants more of the serenity he'd found here, far from the violence of work. Even on calm days there was this stress, a permanent vein of worry for Hank, a heaviness that seemed to get a little worse every day.

But Hank said next year. He'd said every year, and the thrill of thinking about it now is as good as it had been the first time; maybe better, with less shock and breathless disbelief and more… longing. But the good kind, the kind that makes you think about good things to come and leaves you feeling somehow less lonely than before. Maybe because he knows that Hank shares it.

He finally shifts slightly - not a lot, mind - so he can kiss him good morning. He can taste coffee on him, but nothing else, and he tuts disapprovingly at Hank having skipped breakfast. Hank grins against his mouth, knowing exactly what his little scoff means.

"I had to take care of something real quick. Didn't want to be too long," he explains. "Why don't you relax while I grab breakfast, and then we'll decide what we wanna do today?"

Connor's curiosity is piqued, but he knows better than to ask when Hank is giving him this look, because he won't be getting anything out of him anyway. He narrows his eyes, and Hank's lips twitch. He knows Connor's signal for 'you're up to something and I know it.'

Connor casts his gaze about the room, letting it gray out, scanning the delicate wireframe spanning it for clues, but nothing has changed here since yesterday, not that Connor can tell. Hank just gives him a hesitant smile over his shoulder as he cracks an egg into the frying pan, humming a familiar tune, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

They end up going to the beach again, although this time they walk in the opposite direction, and what starts out as a slow, easy stroll turns into more of a hike as they find rockier, jagged placed hidden in the dips of the coastline. It's beautiful in a wild sort of way, the sand turning into flat stones smoothed by the water, pools of ocean water and seafoam remaining even as the tide retreats, hiding all manner of creatures and intriguing trinkets.

Close to sundown, they find a good place to stop and light a bonfire. Hank comments that they haven't seen the town yet as he collects the bone-pale driftwood, but he says it with the teasing smile of someone who doesn't care for the town, just wants to be out here. Connor can't help but agree.

The flare of crackling flames builds slowly, from tendrils licking upwards between the branches to a small inferno, and as they add fuel to it, it turns into a wild swirl that casts them both in an eerie orange light, sparks rising up against a sky rapidly turning indigo. Hank brings out a bag of marshmallows and spears half the contents on a stick he sharpens with a pocketknife, and they sit in the warm glow and roast them until the little pillows turn brown.

Hank holds the stick out for him to try, waving off the smoke. The flavor makes Connor wince, overwhelming with nothing to undercut the sweetness, but the smokiness is nice, and so is the warmth and the texture, the subtle crackle of the caramelized outside and the gush of sticky goo underneath. It's messy to eat, but Hank doesn't seem to mind, laughs as he licks escapee fluff right off Connor's fingers, and then directly from his lips, his grip warm around Connor’s wrist.

Connor's preconstruction software informs him that having sex on the beach is a bad idea and liable to get them both sand in many terribly uncomfortable places, but somehow he can't bring himself to stop Hank from trying, especially when he's pushed down onto the blanket they're sitting on and pinned under his weight. For a long time they just kiss, warm in the quiet space of the coming night, surrounded by each other, Hank’s hands subtly nudging his clothing aside, undoing buttons, tugging elastic down, smoothing over newly bared skin with a slow, unhurried sort of reverence; the same kind he employs with the press of his lips against Connor’s, sometimes feather-light, sometimes deeper and more curious.

Connor thinks he could do this forever, even when Hank eventually kisses his way down his body, uses his mouth in other ways that have him panting and burying one hand in the sand and the other in soft, silver hair as he stares up at the stars.

Afterwards, when they're lying close together, Hank’s hand resting over Connor's thirium pump, Connor reaches into his pocket and curls his fingers around a seashell he'd tucked there. It's not very big, but it’s delicate, all peachy crests and spirals fit nicely in his hand.

He's sure the gesture will be lost on Hank. There's a million just like it on this very beach, a million more in the ocean, but he likes this one, and when he presses it into Hank's hand he feels incredibly silly, trying to find words for something there might not be words for.

Hank doesn't laugh. He doesn't even look confused, he just draws Connor closer, his eyes turning a little misty, and thanks him with a press of his warm lips to his forehead. Connor sighs, releasing a relieved breath. He's still learning all the strange, human things that used to feel so completely foreign. It feels good to get one right.

Hank holds on to the shell even as they eventually head home, and then puts in on the windowsill with a fond look. He's as gentle with it as he is with Connor.

"So," he says, kneading Connor's shoulders. There's a thread of awkwardness in his voice that's rarely there these days, sweet and coloring his voice with what feels like shades of pink. "Shoot me down if this is stupid, but - I went to town today and got a few - you know, little things. Thought we could make use of the bathtub together."

Connor turns to look at Hank's flushed face. The bathtub's probably big enough for three, which means it should just about accommodate their frames. More confusing is why Hank seems embarrassed about it, but Connor doesn't press. He just nods, smiling softly. "That sounds perfect."

Their clothes and hair smell like woodsmoke, and it's a pleasant thing, but it makes it just as pleasant to slip out of them and into the water. The tub at home is too small for this sort of thing, and Hank had gone all out during his morning shopping trip. There's salts, bubbles, oils, some mysterious flower petals, little spheres that fizz when tossed inside. The water is hot when they sink into it together, and Connor curls up against Hank's chest, relaxing into the warm grip of him working his shoulders and massaging something into his scalp.

Hank's awkwardness doesn't take very long to bleed away. Connor vibrates a little from the way his hands glide over his soaped-up skin, dig into places where his synthetic flesh feels most yielding. It's so relaxing he doesn't quite realize he's falling asleep in Hank's arms.

"I like it when you let me take care of you," Hank admits into the pleasant silence. There’s a haze of steam around them, muting sound into something without edges. "You do it so much for me, and I..." he trails off, the arm around Connor's chest tightens. Connor plays with the wet hair on it, tracing an idle pattern into Hank's skin.

The air feels soft. There are quiet splashes where Hank’s hands slide in and out of the water, a rush where he’s breathing next to Connor’s ear. Connor doesn’t say it, but he likes this too. He thinks that perhaps Hank understands anyway.

 

The next few days are much like this. They walk on the beach every morning. They (eventually) go into town, visit the pier to watch the boats bobbing on the sapphire waves, walk among the locals, often holding hands. The streets are small, charming, saturated with sounds and smells - bells or chimes shifting on the breeze, people chattering, waves crashing against the rocky shore. It's a soft rush, a bustle of life entirely unlike Detroit.

When they go home, there's no feeling of tension or exhaustion, but Hank often still draws them a bath, pampers Connor with a massage, or the kind of lovemaking that leaves him completely limp and boneless in Hank’s arms.

The night before they mean to set out again, it storms. Hank's sitting on a plush couch, reading a thin book of poetry while Connor sits in the window seat and watches lightning streak across the sky. The rain pummels the glass, and he can feel it when he touches the pane. The ocean just outside looks - terrifying, really. A well of power with a depth that feels beyond comprehension, even if Connor's mind can supply him with all kinds of intriguing factoids about its size and capacity, average temperatures, chemical composition. It churns in a way that feels almost unreal, like something out of a painting, waves spraying into a thin, pale mist against a black sky.

Connor's entranced, a part of him fully longing to go out there and experience everything without the barrier of glass. But the greater part of him shivers with pleasure when he crawls into Hank's lap a little later, relaxing against him, taking deep breaths and closing his eyes into the sound of crackling thunder and crashing waves. The roar of it makes the space feel cozier, warmer, makes Hank’s hand feel heavier on his forehead, his breaths deeper and closer under Connor’s ear.

Every year, he thinks with a smile as Hank's fingers thread absently into his hair.

 

They wake up before the dawn, the open window bringing in the fresh, damp smell of sand and rain. Petrichor, Connor thinks. The ocean is stiller than ever, their bags already packed. It's a little chilly, so they snuggle under the blankets for as long as they can get away with it before admitting it's time to go.

In a way, it feels good. Their bags are mostly packed, and eating breakfast in the gray morning light, whispering about the journey still ahead of them feels like the start of a new adventure. Hank sips his coffee, makes sure to take the shell from the widow so he won't forget. Connor’s stomach does a little flip at the warm look on his face as he stares at it, then at Connor.

Still, locking the beach house door behind them and walking back up the creaky, sandy steps to their car feels like a chapter is coming to an end somehow. Connor misses it already. He suspects a part of him will think about this little place every day, fondly remember the days on the beach, the baths, the way they’d snuggled up at night to the sound of an ocean just beyond their walls.

To his surprise, Hank doesn't drive off towards the main road right away. Instead, he takes them a little ways north, to a wooded little area and a clifftop overlooking the ocean. They park the car, clamber out one last time to sit on the hood and watch the sunrise together.

Hank runs a hand down his face. His stress level seems a little elevated, his heartbeat an edge erratic, so Connor reaches for his hand, hoping it will soothe whatever errant thoughts are making him tense. He’s not sure how to help beyond that sometimes, but as it turns out he doesn’t often need to.

Hank squeezes his hand in response, shifts towards him. His brow is furrowed slightly, and his hair falls in loose, unruly waves around his face. Connor likes the way the light shines through it, the way he looks framed by the pine forest around them. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, neck open, and Connor fights down a wistful little sigh.

When his eyes meet Connor's, they're warm as always, if a little… concerned, he thinks.

"Are you alright, Hank?" he asks finally, when he can no longer stand the sight of Hank opening his mouth to speak and closing it again a second later.

Hank scoffs, smiles ruefully. "I'm fine, Connor. Just— thinking, you know? It's fucking nice out here. I-" he sighs.

Connor waits. He's used to Hank's way of talking, of sometimes stumbling around until he finds the thing he actually wants to say. And he finds that the pulse of his own heart speeds up, looking for meaning in his words, half-wishing Hank would just say that he wants to stay here, spend an indefinite amount of time doing more of this.

Hank finally seems to steel himself. "I want to give you something. But I don't want you to feel - pressured by it, or think anything of it that you don't - ah." He looks up, his eyes soft, face turning a darker shade. "It's - I just want you to have a reminder. Give me your hand?"

Connor holds out his hand mutely. Jolts when he feels the little object Hank presses into his palm, still warm from Hank's pocket, or perhaps his hand where he’d clutched it before giving it to Connor. He looks down at the silvery glint of it when Hank withdraws shyly, his breathing quiet and half-held. Blinks, processing the weight of it, twisting it between his fingers.

Hank coughs. "You don't have to wear it. You don't even have to fucking take it, just - if you want it, I hope it can remind you of this place. Of how much I - how much I love you. How much I want every year."

He stares at the elegant, slender band, the way it reflects the sun. At first glance it looks like plain silver, but something about the gentle dips in texture make it look almost opalescent, like the delicate inside of a seashell. A rolling grove implies the shape of a wave, or maybe a jagged, rocky shoreline.

He knows, of course. And Hank knows, too, that Connor doesn't really wear jewelry, that neither of them do, but then there's this ring and it- it is just like this place, beautiful but with the same kinds of edges that Hank has, and Connor's mind is spinning.

"I should've waited," Hank mutters. "I don't want to freak you out. I don't want to made the ride back home awkward for you, either, or - if you don't like it, or would rather -"

"Hank," Connor interrupts him curling his fingers around it, clutching the little thing so hard it digs into the soft places on his hand. He wonders if he can go into an android equivalent of cardiac arrest over the thought of Hank wearing a matching one. "It's beautiful."

He looks up into Hank's soft, uncertain eyes, trying not to feel quite as much as he's feeling and failing horribly. His smile wobbles, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to take a deep breath around the vice grip in his chest. Hank makes a noise, touches his shoulder, his grip warm, patient, a reassurance.

Connor clears his throat, looks down at it again, running his thumb over one edge. "I don't want to forget," he says quietly. He wants to put it on, but he feels suddenly small and - confused, because he doesn't know if the symbolism Hank must know is there is intended or not. He doesn't know how to weigh out the moment, how to react at all, whether with teasing or laughter or some kind of emotional gravity he's not sure he was ever meant to accommodate, so he freezes, clutching one of Hank's hands in his own, still spinning.

"Hey," Hank says gently, shifting closer. "No pressure, remember? I just - saw it, I wanted something nice for you, and-"

"I don't want to forget," Connor repeats before Hank can finish, because he feels a little strange and he needs to get the words out. "Will you-"

He hands it to Hank, who thankfully understands his need from whatever locked up expression must be on Connor's face, takes his hand and slides the ring onto his slender finger. It fits perfectly, settles warmly on his skin, catches heat of the sunrise.

Connor smiles. Leans into Hank, wraps his arm around him and presses his face into his warm neck, where he always feels safe, every bit of him, including his stupidly fragile heart.

Hank rubs his spine between his shoulder blades, humming, his stress level falling steadily. Connor doesn't want to let go of him. Not now, not ever.

For the first time, he feels like he maybe never has to. He cups Hank's neck to kiss him, breathless, hyperaware of the tiny extra weight on his hand resting against Hank's skin, warm from both of them.

When they pull apart, it feels different. Maybe because Connor's face is a little damp with tears. He rubs his face against Hank's shoulder with a shaky sniff. He's fine, he's overwhelmed, Hank is whispering something too hushed to catch. But he thinks that it sounds like a promise.

It's a while before Connor feels steady. He clears his throat, an unnecessary noise to buy him some time, more than anything. He could be embarrassed, maybe, if there was room for anything in his chest outside of this peculiar mix of elation and awareness and a love that could almost be pain.

He's suddenly very okay with going back to Detroit. Hank's hand is warm over his, and maybe it's presumptuous, though he no longer thinks so given the watery sheen in Hank's eyes, but he knows that the ring is not just a trinket or a souvenir, was never meant to be one.

Hank gave Connor the out if he needed it, but Connor doesn't want it, and he needs Hank to know that, because he knows Hank's heart is made out of remarkably similar stuff to his. So he gathers his scattered thoughts and tells him as much, tracing Hank's knuckles, trailing his fingers over the warm creases on his hand, the rougher calluses, the hair on his wrist.

He tells him how much he'd like to give Hank a matching ring, in case he'd like his own reminder. He doesn't want Hank to forget this, either.

It doesn't have to be now, he's on the verge of clarifying, of giving Hank his own out, but Hank pulls him into another one of those deeply relaxing, languid kisses, one arm low around him, pressing him close, the space between them suddenly nonexistent. Connor can feel his heartbeat against his lips, a warm tattoo, evidence of a feeling that was never supposed to be his to begin with. Yet here they were, and here it was, evident in the way Hank’s tongue asks for entry into his mouth, in the way he grips Connor’s hips, in the way he caresses the back of his neck and holds him.

They end up delaying their departure by a little bit. They have to visit the town again to stop by the jewelry shop before they go.

 

Maybe it's sudden, Hank muses a little later, but no part of him actually feels it as suddenness. Connor’s a part of his life he doesn’t want to do without, and he can’t bring himself to regret the impulse, especially when he glances at Connor out of the corner of his eye and sees him staring down at the silver glint of the ring on his hand, wearing a blissed-out kind of smile.

Something settles in Hank’s chest, a clench of possessive certainty, a echo of the word mine even as a softer part of him wants to whisper an uncertain, hopeful yours in Connor’s direction. He settles for taking his hand instead, stroking the skin over the silver band on his finger as he watches the traffic of the streets give way to an open sky and a woodland that envelops them once again.

By the time they're out on the road, heading back towards Detroit with days of travel ahead of them, they both feel like they've been wearing the rings forever. Hank kisses Connor’s hand, holds on to it, feeling its weight in his grip. He sighs when Connor's fingers curl possessively around his, interlacing, his touch sweet. Hank can feel the metal band against his pinky. A slight flicker where Connor lets his soft, pale inner skin show through wherever they touch.

He puts on Connor’s music. Rachmaninoff, he thinks. There’s a warm swell in his heart, it grows larger when Connor makes a soft, happy noise next to him.

Going back doesn't feel like leaving anything behind anymore.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to say hello, come yell at me on twitter @inkysparks. :)


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